


Nesting

by AssistedRealityInterface



Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Fluff, Multi, Romance, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-07
Updated: 2012-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-05 00:32:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AssistedRealityInterface/pseuds/AssistedRealityInterface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint does not like being on solo missions. Clint does, however, like tight spaces, being snug, the routine of being home, and pillow forts. His lovers are rather accommodating on that front.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nesting

**Author's Note:**

> So this was written for a friend of mine after she drew me beautiful fanart for A Man and His Toy Soldiers and then we headcanon'd and oops this happened.  
> So yeah; Clint and his nests were legitimately the cutest thing in the opening and I just wanted to cry he was so precious. So...pillow forts are also amazing. What other reason should there be to write this?  
> Also; I don't know if this is in AatA's verse. I assume so--most of my work IS--but...you can take it as part of AatA's verse or not. If it is, then it would be somewhere after the end of AatA, though it doesn't have any spoilers, obviously.  
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy it! I'm hoping to convert as many people to my OT3 as possible, haha.

Clint liked small spaces. 

They all teased him about it a little; leaving Cadbury eggs in his perches, cooing at him on occasion, or, in Tony's case, just buying a bale of straw and literally throwing it around one of his more commonly-used nests on the Helicarrier. Phil had dumped vodka into his jetboots in retaliation for that one. Clint could've kissed him.

But they all understood, because they all had their little hang-ups too; Natasha never wore makeup outside of missions, not even to hide her scars, (that, though, had taken some gentle encouragement from her boys, and Clint and Coulson were never more grateful for the acceptance of the Avengers than the day she had shown up without cover-up on), Bruce needed to be alone after a mission more than any of them, and then surrounded by all of them for comfort purposes ten minutes later, Thor took trinkets of war and left them in places where he knew his brother might see and find them, even if he knew it was risky, Steve had to be the first to see Tony out of his suit after a mission, and Tony always needed Steve to touch the reactor for him and make sure nothing had gone wrong. They were just little quirks that Coulson took careful note of, because the Avengers were his team, and he wanted them to perform their missions without causing harm to themselves if it could be helped.

He knew Clint and Natasha's quirks best, though, for obvious reasons, and he knew how deep they ran. It wasn't just that Clint liked tight spaces, for example...it was that he liked being embraced and cradled and wrapped up in something warm and soft--something safe.

It was why he unlocked the door that afternoon, finished with yet another debriefing, to find a pillow fort in his living room.

Coulson remained relatively unperturbed, to his credit. He could hear Natasha in the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of something--probably soda, from the way it hissed. He walked right past the fort and was handed a glass of root beer by Natasha, who already had one in her hand.

He sipped it for a minute before sharing a relieved smile with her.

"He's back." He said. It wasn't a question, but Natasha nodded anyway.

It had been the first solo mission Clint had taken in almost a year. He had accepted the mission with a stony face and a curt nod, but the second Coulson and Natasha hurried him out of the debriefing room, he broke down in tears, sobbing until they had bundled him up in the car and sat in the backseat with him, holding him so close his tears spilled over both their shirts.

It was a simple mission, sure, but Clint was obviously under stress. And he was certainly in need of comfort. However, they both knew that Clint would need to reach out and _ask_ for that comfort first, because otherwise, interfering would make it worse. 

So they sipped their sodas in silence, their hands on each other's hip, Natasha's head on Coulson's shoulder, until they heard the sound of the blankets shifting. It meant Clint was moving. That was good; he could lay inside a nest for hours without moving, in a trance, not responding to anything around him. If he was going to move about already, it meant they might be able to talk to him sooner than anticipated.

Coulson and Natasha looked at each other, curious. Their gazes searched each other, questioning; who would go to him first?

Eventually, Phil nodded, accepting the task without a word. It made sense, after all. He had taken care of them both. Stood to reason he would tend to Clint even now. 

Natasha kissed his cheek, an unspoken promise that she would join both her lovers shortly. She would gather blankets and pillows while Phil tried to talk to him. It was usually the case that they both ended up sleeping in Clint's nest anyway, and she didn't want to abandon him for even those few minutes it would take to fetch them once he'd opened up.

Coulson made his way back into the living room, raising an eyebrow at Clint's position. He had clambered up on top of the pillow fort, perched on top of it, looking intently at the door he had just entered into the living room from. He had been waiting for them, Phil knew it. He sighed.

"I take it the mission didn't go well." He said.

"No. Not really." Clint murmured in return. Coulson just nodded in acknowledgement. Clint would spill the rest when he was ready. 

He sat there for a few minutes, sipping his soda and watching Clint. The archer didn't move from his perch, watching him intently in return. His eyes were sharp and stormy grey, revealing nothing. That worried Phil more than he could put into words. If Clint was closed off to him...then he was lost.

Interrupting his thoughts, Clint very lightly leapt off the top of the pillow fort and crawled back inside, the rustling of blankets and pillows the only sounds enamating from within. Phil didn't move.

"May I come in, Clint?" He asked, hesitantly hopeful.

"No." Clint replied.

Coulson bit back the urge to sigh; it wouldn't help.

"Clint, what happened? Can you at least tell me that?" He asked. That would be a good starting point. Just find out what went wrong and tend to that. Then Clint would let him in and he could comfort him from there.

Clint grunted, and he heard him roll over in the nest, hugging the pillow tight with the soft sounds of fabric rubbing against his leather jacket.

"Nothing went wrong. The mission went off without a hitch. Took out the target, didn't even need a handler, like Fury promised, got home in two days. But I wasn't with you." Clint said. "No Nat, either. So there was no one holding me when I slept. No one but me, and that meant...if I came out of the nest...that meant I was in danger." He confessed.

Coulson sighed, understanding making his heart ache. He just nodded, even though he knew Clint couldn't see him. 

"I know that's scary for you, Clint, but we're here now." He promised. "The nest is safe, but so is home, okay?"

The blankets rustled. Coulson waited patiently for a reply, his heart aching with worry.

"I know," Clint finally said, "but...I gotta believe it first. So...let me get used to being home for a bit, okay? Then you can come in. Promise. I just...need...to know I can leave the nest and go someplace safe if I want...but I'll be safe here until I do."

"Of course, sweetheart. Natasha and I will be in the kitchen making dinner if you need us." Coulson promised, his voice quiet and calm. He could handle this. This sort of thing had happened before, in fact; he knew exactly what to do.

"Okay." Clint said. He fell silent after that. Coulson had been expecting that, so he didn't mind. He just finished his soda and went back into the kitchen.

When Natasha came back down, he said in her ear, his voice soft as he could make it, "He needs to get used to the routine again. He needs to know he's safe. Just act normal and we'll be able to go in soon." 

Natasha nodded in agreement and poured them both another glass; this time it wasn't root beer, but whiskey. They could both use the drink.

They drained their glasses quickly and began to bustle about the kitchen, preparing dinner as loudly as they could without seeming cacophonous, so as to make Clint feel at home and at ease.

...

Clint snuggled up in his nest and closed his eyes, listening. He didn't have to watch a target anymore. He could just fly home and roost, safe. Safe and soft and sound. He could close his eyes here, because he didn't need to keep watch. This was a safe place.

The pillow fort was small but comfortable, with at least fifteen pillows within, forming a nest along one side that he could curl up in, a pile of blankets lying atop the pillows that made the lower half of his nest that he could snuggle up within and hide, the darkness warm and comforting and without end. The three blankets he had to cover up the pillows, chairs, and arrow-supports that made up his fort muffled most sound, which was just fine by Clint. The only things he could hear were the things he wanted to hear.

There was no more gunfire or screaming or cursing. The darkness was warm and soft, and in the darkness, he heard their voices.

Coulson's muted hum as he chopped vegetables for dinner; from the way things smelled, it was probably chili. Clint's stomach growled in anticipation; two days without Phil's cooking was a hardship, truly. 

Natasha's heels clicked on the linoleum, and he knew full well she only wore them so he could hear her. It made him smile as he laid his head against the stacked pillows and snuggled into them, cooing softly and forcing his body to relax. He whistled softly, like the twittering of a bird, and nuzzled the softness of his blankets, listening to the sounds of his lovers making dinner.

Ground beef hissed and fizzled on the stove. Sauce bubbled, and the smell continued to creep under his blankets. Natasha laughed at something Phil said, warming Clint's heart and making him smile. Phil opened up the fridge and rifled through it for a little while. 

Plates clinked on the table, glasses resounding with a soft thump off the wood as they were set down. Silverware rattled as it was placed on the plates and the splash of drinks hitting the bottom of the glass rushed through Clint's ears. 

Phil put a record on; it was the usual dinner record, a slow, bluesy jazz record that made Clint's whole body relax. 

It was routine. It was _safe._ It was...happiness.

Clint opened his eyes in the darkness and poked his head out of the blankets. He couldn't lose out on the routine. It was too safe. It was just as safe and warm and soft as his nest...as long as Phil and Nat were there.

He crawled out of his pillow fort only to see the table had been set for a third person the entire time.

Clint stood up and sat down like nothing had happened, eating dinner slowly. He saw the pride on Phil's face at that small mark of progress--normally, Clint wolfed his food down like he'd never see it again, a S.H.I.E.L.D.-encouraged habit Phil had done his best to break--and smiled in return, sipping the milk Natasha gave him and sticking out his tongue playfully. Coulson just rolled his eyes and smiled, reaching over the table to stroke his cheek. For a second he flinched, worried Clint wouldn't want the contact after a mission, but Clint leaned his cheek into the touch and shot him a look, reminding him he could always touch, if he so wished.

Phil grinned and ran a thumb over Clint's cheekbone before pulling away and finishing up. The three of them put the plates away quickly, just leaving them in the sink, before Clint fled back to the nest so fast that it made Coulson and Natasha's heads spin.

They did, however, notice the blanket-door had been left open.

The two of them got dressed for bed upstairs without a word, hurrying back downstairs as fast as they could, grabbing the extra pillows and blankets from the kitchen on their way back. They knelt and crawled into the pillow fort, looking at Clint, who was snuggled up in all his blankets and curled up in his nest, eyes closed and breathing slow and soft.

He looked peaceful then, innocent and content, and the two of them took a moment to appreciate how relaxed and at ease their archer had to be to rest in such a way. It was a relief. And it was something they wished to share with him, if they could.

"May we come closer?" Natasha asked, her voice soft and warm. Clint nodded but once, slipping back into his trance. 

Coulson got under the blankets on his right side, Natasha on his left. The two of them wound their arms around him and pulled themselves closer to him, molding their bodies to his and curling up around him. 

"We missed you, darling." Natasha promised. "The bed really is too big for only two people."

Silence for a minute. Then Clint whispered, very softly, "Missed you too. Didn't feel as safe in my nests without knowing I could call on you two to come sit with me if I needed it."

"Do you need it now, Clint?" Coulson asked, his voice quiet and concerned. Clint nodded. 

They both pulled themselves even closer, so close that they could hear his muscles shifting as he trembled. Natasha kissed his forehead and Phil kissed the junction between his shoulder and his neck.

"Preening me already?" Clint teased, a little of his normal warmth returning to his voice. Phil chuckled and kissed his cheek. 

"Of course, prettybird." He murmured, making both Clint and Natasha laugh. Phil nuzzled Clint's neck, his hands stroking Clint's sides as Natasha pulled the blankets up over all three of them.

"Your nest is soft," Natasha whispered, "and safe. You are not alone in your nest, and we will watch over you. You may rest, Clint. We will watch over you." 

"You're going to be just fine," Coulson murmured, his voice joining hers in gentle comfort, "and you can stay here in this little space for as long as you need to so you can feel safe. We'll stay with you. Preen you a little, prettybird. So long as you feel okay afterwards."

Clint laid there in his nest for awhile after that, his eyes closed, his heartbeat slow and comforting. He didn't see them, but he could feel them, their nightly routine coming to life even in the nest; Natasha had wrapped her arms around him, her hands finding Phil's, with Coulson's legs wrapped around his and Natasha's hair spilling over Clint's shoulder. They fit together snugly, settled into the nest, warm and safe.

"I already do," Clint promised, and for a second, he was surprised at how true that was. Then, when he heard them smile, a soft sound and little else, he was surprised he hadn't learned that already.


End file.
